


Ready, aim, fire

by tresshots



Series: Assemble [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Everyone Is Alive, F/M, M/M, Minor Braeden/Derek Hale, Minor Heather/Stiles Stilinski, almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tresshots/pseuds/tresshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"God, but wouldn’t Stiles love to just rip Derek apart and paint him all gold and red inside and corrupt him until he’s screaming his name out so fucking loud."</p>
<p>In which Derek is Captain America, Stiles is Iron Man, Scott’s Hulk, Lydia is Natasha, Allison is Hawkeye, Boyd’s Black Panther, Erica’s Thor, and Isaac is Spider-Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready, aim, fire

**Author's Note:**

> So, hi. This is my first published fic in years and the very first I've ever published in English, so please do forgive me if there's any funny business going on, linguistically speaking. I would love some feedback.

All the other boys and girls, they were just puppets; dolls, to be more precise, pretty and flawless like Barbies and just as brainless, too; always giggling, polished, waxed, dressed up. They didn’t have one single bone in their body which would’ve offered any kind of challenge. And the thing about Stiles, you see, is that he gets bored very easily.

So Derek is - intoxicating. Completely, endlessly infuriating. Derek goes by the rules and seems to never give in to his whims; hell, most of the time Derek doesn’t seem to even _have_ any whims and what the fuck is up with that, even? What kind of a person doesn’t get impulsive, even once? Well, the Captain America kind of a person. The responsible, smart, cautious person. The brave hero. The Golden boy.

God, but wouldn’t Stiles love to just rip Derek apart and paint him all gold and red inside and corrupt him until he’s screaming his name out so fucking loud.

 

There’s a lot of girls present, girls in their sparkly little dresses with legs so long they are surely illegal in some parts of the world, their fuck-me-heels clicking against the floor creating an exciting echo through the building. There are also trays full of sparkling gold champagne and men in tuxes so sharp and expensive their worth could probably cover a small country’s one year GDP. Everything is so pretty and glamorous and so fucking _nice_ it should hurt to just be looking at the scenery.

Stiles doesn’t care right now, because what he’s got in front of him is far more appealing than the most ludicrous Harry Winston diamonds any of the women are wearing.

“Hey,” Derek says with a soft, soft mouth.

“How the fuck are you not drunk?” Stiles greets, loud and outraged. The question gets a surprised laugh out of Derek.

“What?”

“No, seriously,” Stiles is taking very personal offense to this. “Dude, you’ve had, like, what? Fucking _bottles_ of champagne by now. And probably also other stuff, which you are not aware of just yet. They all want to see you get drunk. i would be very careful of what I was drinking tonight, if I were you..”

“They wouldn‘t do anything,” Derek shrugs confidently, apparently not familiar with the level of crazy to which fan-worshipping can go these days, bless his innocent heart. “And I can‘t - you know, my metabolism, so - I can‘t really get drunk.”

“It’s true? No, hold the fuck on, it‘s actually _true_?!” Stiles gasps outraged.

“How‘d you know about it in the first place?” Derek’s alarmed.

“I hacked your files.”

“You did what?”

“Your SHIELD files,” Stiles shrugs, completely unaffected.

“But,” Derek blinks, his stupid gorgeous eyes all blazing gray-blue-green and probably starlight itself, “isn‘t that kind of… illegal?”

“Oh, you,” Stiles lets out a dry laugh with more affection he feels comfortable with. “You. You’re way too much, golden boy,” he muses and gets the idea of the century. “C’mon, giddy up. I‘m gonna show you.”

“Show me what?” Derek asks with narrowed eyes, clearly afraid of the answer.

“I believe nothing is impossible, so I’m going to do the thing and get you drunk, obviously,” Stiles rolls his eyes. His eyesight wavers in a bubbly way which makes his stomach roll, also. “Unless, of course,” Stiles’ mouth forms a joyous smile and words of their own special naughty brand, “you had something else in mind.”

Derek shakes his head, but he watches with concern as Stiles gets on his feet. Stiles hovers for one little second, with purpose or not, he doesn’t even know, and Derek reaches out and places his hand on Stiles’ lower back, his palm a warm, sure pressure through Stiles’ tux.

And then, this is how it starts: Derek keeps his eyes very determinately away from Stiles, but. _But_ , he blushes.

_Well_ , Stiles’ belligerent brain muses all by itself, _I wonder whether he’s the type to blush all over._

 

It’s not like they had a good start or anything; pretty much the very opposite. Stiles is who he is, so of course he was running his mouth constantly, taking mean, cheap shots at the boy wonder at every chance possible. It had been partly curiosity; a test, of its sort, to see how much guts the legendary, oh-so-chivalrous superhero had; part jealousy, and then - well, in time, especially after they’d defeated good old Deucalion, it had turned into a way to attract Derek’s attention.

But it changed. Stiles’ mansion became the Avengers Mansion, and when previously they’d only met in Avengers business, now they’re actually _living_ together, and that changes the dynamics a lot. The jabs start turning into various comments about the tight-fitting Captain costume or how sex was presented on this day or a teasing remark about all the girls who were constantly trying to flirt with Derek.

It is delicious to see Derek blushing - and oh, did he ever blush - and mutter and turn his gaze shyly away. It’s pretty much science to Stiles - he’s a master at making other people embarrassed, and he’s pretty much fascinated with this stranger from 70 years ago, and really, it’s kind of a competition by now. At first it’s just him doing it, but then Erica and Isaac notice how red Derek turns at mentions of physical contact between human beings, and it turns into a battle. They keep a list about it on the fridge. Its’ got three sections and a pen, and whenever one of them gets one section full, the others have to take on Deaton’s duties.

Scott thinks they’re being cruel, and Boyd is mostly confused since he can’t for his life figure out why Derek would be embarrassed about something as mundane as sex, so it’s Stiles and Erica and Isaac and Derek, and it’s fun, really. Or, for a couple of weeks it is, at least. After Isaac and Erica lose their interest, it’s just Stiles, and he doesn’t know why, but he keeps doing it. At first the others shoot strange looks at him, because he’s the only one continually pushing at Derek’s buttons, but then they all get used to it, and Derek stops blushing as often as he previously did. Stiles keeps on trying to keep the list alive.

_It’s just a game_ , Stiles reminds himself whenever he sees his bar has grown almost four times bigger than the others’, _it’s just a game, nothing else, I love pissing people off_ ; refuses to think about any other explanation, and so it simply never stops.

 

Weeks go unnoticed, slow. The team works together furiously - apparently, when they managed to tackle on the very first crazy world destruction plan, it doesn’t quite lessen the amount of other crazy people wishing for world dominance, oh no; it's the opposite. Suddenly they’re fighting every single fucking villain left and right, and they get hurt sometimes, badly so, even, and Stiles - he feels fucking _alive_ , and _happy_ , and it’s probably the best time of his goddamned life. So of course Heather leaves at one point. It takes a few days before Stiles even notices that her stuff is gone from their bedroom, fuck, the bedroom they’d designed together, which Heather had furnished herself –

And the worst part is that it’s not actually Stiles who notices her absence. No, it’s Scott, who asks in the middle of a movie night about Heather’s whereabouts, and Stiles glances around and says: ”I don’t know.”

And the bottom of his stomach just drops. He doesn’t know where his girlfriend, his bloody – love of his life, and he’s ruined it all – he _doesn’t fucking know_ , god, what a fucking _joke_ he is –

Stiles stands up, popcorn flying everywhere, and stalks to his own private floor provided with a private workshop. He gets incredibly, smashingly drunk and destroys half of his unfinished inventions, crashing on the floor only when his limbs betray his will. He closes his eyes and is found almost two full days after, waking up to dark hair and broad shoulders and a soft, gentle whisper. ”C’mon, I’m taking you to bed. It’s going to be alright.”

Stiles closes his eyes, clings on, embarrassingly so, and tries to believe.

 

So nothing really changes. There are still attacks against them, Heather’s still the CEO of the Stilinski Company, Stiles is still unworthy of anything good and Derek’s hot as fuck, so really, it’s all the same. Every once in a while Stiles gets really, unbearably unhappy and those are the times when he drinks and afterwards gets pitying looks from Scott, but neither he or anybody else really nags about it so Stiles figures it’s okay. Not like he’s expecting for anyone to care, anyway.

It happens after one of those goddamned Doctor Doom attacks with bewitched stuffed animals. They actually needed for Lydia to summon Jackson up for the attack, what the fuck is that even, and everyone is tired to their bones when they crash back to the mansion. Lydia bids them a good night, her catsuit ripped apart and eyes holding a faraway look for affiliating with Jackson after such a long time.

Allison and Scott disappear into a room together, nobody questioning the choice, Isaac wanders somewhere nobody knows – master of being invisible when he wants to, that’s what he is – and Erica and Boyd go off to probably a) work out or b) watch cartoons, it’s either a hit or miss with them. Stiles is too tired to even notice where Derek goes. The multimillionaire playboy takes a long, hot shower, and because his body is fucked up just like his brain, he doesn’t get sleepy after the shower. If anything, he’s fully awake now.

It’s useless to try to get some sleep when he’s like this – there’s numbers running in his mind, endless equations waiting to be resolved. Stiles bangs his head against the headboard and gets up. Pulls on a hoodie and jeans, not bothering with underwear. What he needs is some caffeine and then he can design something incredibly fun and complex and completely useless, and then he’ll pass out from sheer exhaustion. It’s a destructive pattern he’s very familiar with, but hey, if it ain’t broken…

Stiles stumbles his way to the kitchen, rubbing his bleary, bloodshot eyes while pressing the button on the coffee machine, completely ignoring the figure sitting on the table until it makes noise.

“Are you sure you should be drinking that, at this time?” Stiles startles, the mug twitching, spilling some boiling liquid on his hand. He hisses, curses, turns to start on a rant, but then.

It’s Derek. Without a shirt. Or pants. Well, fuck his life.

”What the fuck are you creeping about, _at this time_?” Stiles’ fighting against a blush, turns his attention back to his coffee.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Derek says, all puppy-eyed and floppy-haired.

Stiles never stood a fucking _chance_. “I’m not mad,” he says, and feels annoyed about it. What does he care if Derek thought he was angry? Since when has he started being concerned about golden boy’s _feelings_?

Derek smiles slightly. He’s drinking apple juice, and apparently he’s been fooling around with his SSPad. Him and Boyd have recently found Candy Crush. It’s awful for them all, and Derek’s somehow defending himself by saying it helps him with battle strategies. Stiles is convinced nobody ever believes a word Derek says, but nobody dares to question him, so he believes he can do whatever without consequences. (Which is pretty much true.) 

“I thought everybody else was asleep,” Derek says.

“Yeah, I just couldn’t.”

“Why?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m gonna go design something real quick. Feeling quite innovative, you know.”

Derek nods. “I draw.”

“You draw.”

“Not professionally. Just, sometimes,” Derek says.

“Jesus fuck, is there _anything_ you can’t do?” Stiles blurts.

“Language.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that, it’s, what, 5AM, my brain-to-mouth filter is somewhat lacking.”

“I grew up with military.”

“Then why’d you pretend to be bothered?”

“Because sometimes I feel like I have this role everybody’s expecting me to fill, and I’d hate to disappoint,” Derek says, won’t meet his eyes.

Stiles is so fucking bad with people when it actually matters. He can’t take this midnight honesty hour, he just wants to fall asleep, preferably for a few months and wake up when everything’s beautiful again. So nothing changes because he can’t make himself care enough about Derek’s subtle offer of friendship, and because he isn’t really ready to see past all the Captain America worship. Stiles bids goodnight and leaves, because he’s grown very good at abandoning people, at this point.

 

But after that night, it all starts with a mouth. Or, to be more precise, lips and tongue. Captain’s lips and tongue, if there’s any need to get into completely minor details.

Captain America – Derek Hale – he’s got an oral fixation, you see. He apparently loves sucking and licking all the things he can reach. Bananas for breakfast, pens at dull meetings with Deaton; ice cold popsicles on hot sunny days, the drinking bottle’s neck after a hard-driven training. And, of course, lollipops. Bloody lollipops. Derek Hale doesn’t drink coffee, but he’s got one hell of a sweet tooth, which he seems to try to satisfy with Chupa Chup’s all-colored trademarks.

So, basically, why this seemingly minor detail is important to Stiles, is that Derek is constantly sucking on something. Everywhere, all the time. And Stiles has never been able to resist a pair of nice lips with an objective inserted between them, so that’s all that it takes, really. He tries to ban Jarvis from allowing any more damned bananas in the house anymore, but that’s not helping; apparently Derek loves to do his own grocery shopping and Stiles couldn’t be as cruel as to throw his precious hand-picked fruits away, right?

Well, actually he tried, once, and he felt so bloody stupid sneaking to his own fucking kitchen in the middle of the night like a fucking thief just so he could get rid of some superhero’s breakfast bananas, really, what the fuck is his life - but then right when he had made it to the kitchen, Lydia had apparently materialized out of the fucking wall, and with a carefully-aimed karate kick, had sent Stiles to the floor, oozing with pain. So that was that, and Stiles has simply learned to suffer through his breakfasts.

Stiles watches and pretends not to. But the interest has been awoken, and it rests inside him like a curious beast, ready to attack at any time.

 

Isaac is a fucking bully, Stiles decides, he’s plain mean and only good for prancing around in tight Spidey spandex, if that counts for anything. (Well, it’s alarming how many people seem to think it does. Stiles doesn’t get it. He’s never really gone for the Cherubic, innocent type.)

They’re sitting on the rooftop terrace, enjoying their magnificent win against the Monster of the Week, when Isaac decides they should play Truth or Dare. Stiles debunks the idea immediately and congratulates himself when the others agree that they’re grown ass people and shouldn’t lower themselves to playing silly high school games, but Erica is still keen on learning the true and noble ways of Earth, so she urges them all to play Never have I ever, instead.

It’s all fine and dandy, practically bragging about their combat experience (Lydia puts them all to shame, no surprises there – it’s Erica who claims her body count is nearing 3000, and Lydia doesn’t bat an eyelash on her turn when she reveals hers to be over 6000 – Stiles makes a note to never fall asleep on her proximity _ever again_ ), when Isaac attacks.

“Never have I ever kissed a guy,” Isaac says. He looks kind of sad about it, too.

It’s pretty much a given that Lydia and Allison drink. Erica drinks, too, but then again she’s been raising her glass at absolutely everything – they did explain the rules, but she is in a very close and devoted relationship with her alcohol and causes no harm, so they let her do whatever the hell she wants. Boyd raises his glass, much to the amusement of Lydia and Erica. Stiles smirks and raises his own, taking a delicate sip. Lydia rolls her eyes; no surprises there for her, but – Derek? He keeps his gaze locked on Stiles and then the motherfucker goes on and picks his glass up and drinks his apple juice. Straight. To. The. Bottom.

Everybody gets quiet. Derek’s eartips get red, Stiles gets horny, water is wet.

“Who?” Lydia absolutely fucking _purrs_ , leaning forward.

“What does it matter,” Derek avoids everybody’s eyes. Only silence meets him, and he starts to blubber. It’s a wondrous thing, how Derek starts giving his secrets out when he’s under enough pressure. “It was a long time ago. Literally.”

“Did you…” Isaac starts and then he seems to suddenly remember his place in this world, he’s asking Captain America about his gay experiences. How do you even carry on after something as life-changing as this?

“Did I what?” Derek blinks.

“Did you fuck him, is what he’s trying to ask,” Stiles hears somebody say, and hey, they’re all looking at him, was that really him? Derek’s possible gay crusade has broken all that’s left of his brain-to-mouth filter.

Derek’s getting so red it’s a wonder he’s not bursting into flames right now. “No,” he grasps at straws, “and even if I did, that would be none of your business.”

“So you wanted to?”

“I’m not – this is ridiculous.”

“Did you have a crush on him?” Stiles asks incredulously. Derek starts fidgeting, which says enough, and a little bit more. “You did! Holy _hell_. Who was the guy?” Stiles demands, and tries to convince himself that it’s just pure curiosity and not jealousy he’s feeling. Or possessiveness. Nope, sir, not him.

“No-one. Can we – whose turn is it?” Derek’s desperation is _delicious_.

“Like hell I’m letting this go, Cap.”

“You’re not getting anything from me, Stiles.”

“Anything?” Stiles can’t help but bait because that’s him, he’s just _that fucking smooth_ , thank you very much, and finally Derek looks at him. Oh boy, Stiles is melting.

“What about you?”

“What about me, Cap?”

“You ever… done that… with a man?”

Stiles is holding his breath and he’s distantly aware that everybody sits still, and Derek just won’t quit, he won’t ever do that and that’s part of the reason why Stiles likes him so, _so_ much, but right now, Stiles would like a bit of give, too. “Wouldn’t you love to know.” He licks at his lips.

“That’s not an answer.” Derek looks at his mouth, he does, he _does_ , jesus, _finally_ \---

And because Isaac is the most tactful person-spider-hybrid to ever grace the Earth, he’s got to make his presence known. “I’ve never kissed a guy,” Isaac giggles in his state of high-school-girl drunkenness.

The tension is gone in a heartbeat. Derek purses his lips, makes himself busy with pouring himself some more juice, and Stiles turns to burn Isaac with the power of his eyes only. Erica’s got another question, and soon everybody’s laughing and Derek’s little admission is buried under shots, shots, shots. Stiles, though – he does stick to his tequila, but he does not forget. He follows Derek with his eyes for the whole evening, and whenever Derek looks back at him: _electricity_.

 

This is the first time Stiles realizes just how deep he’s getting into Derek: he’s running some tests on him, getting blood samples and secretly gushes thinking about the science bromance bonding him and Scott will have over the results.

Derek’s been going on the treadmill for ages, and it’s a comfortable silence between them, Stiles keeping up with the readings and Derek concentrating on the burn of his muscles, and that’s when Derek decides it’s a good idea to take his shirt off.

Stiles closes his eyes and counts to ten.

“Cold?”

“Nah,” Derek shrugs, and the bastard’s not even out of breath. “Warm.” Derek smiles down at Stiles, slightly sweating, and the spark in his eyes is absolutely fucking gorgeous.

Stiles can’t help but smile back. “Want something to drink?”

“No, but if you need to take a break, we can,” Derek shrugs.

“No, nope, absolutely not, never in a million lifetimes. I don’t feel any desire for basic needs like bathroom breaks or water consuming,” Stiles backtracks hastily, and he can feel every single hair on his neck standing up in pure embarrassment. Derek flashes him a brilliant smile, and it hits Stiles like a fucking flash of lightning. Stiles is practically preening. There is absolutely no doubt he’s trying to show off for Derek, and holy shit, how long has this been going on for, exactly?

He’s never felt the need to be anything else but himself, come on, he’s Stiles Stilinski, he’s Iron Man, _everybody wants him or to be him_ and that’s not self-absorbed, that’s just a simple _fact_. So why in the seventh hell does he act like a bloody fool in front of Derek? Okay, so, maybe it could be somewhat forgiven, well, the guy’s Captain America, for fuck’s sake, but still – Stiles is, admittedly, having a mini nervous breakdown. And what is truly, deeply scarring and alarming, is that he really couldn’t give a fuck, not when Derek simply carries on with his running. _Oh, well_ , Stiles thinks, _I’m fucked,_ and slithers his gaze down Derek’s body, taking in every single detail he can. _Can’t imagine any better way to go, though._

 

Stiles loves New York. He feels it with every breath he takes; he’s vibrating alongside the city. It’s always full of surprises, always on the move, calculating the next new thing to lust after. It’s practically an embodiment of Stiles, and he simply feels home in New York. So it’s not a task at all to show Derek around.

Derek needs a new drawing board. He’s sitting at the breakfast table, clicking away on his SSPad, and Stiles is munching on his bagel. Derek seems confused at whatever his screen is saying, so Stiles gets unusually chivalrous and finds out Derek can’t for his life work out Google Maps.

Derek is unexpectedly good with technology, he’s using the latest Stilinski tech with little difficulties, but for some reason maps blow his mind, and not in a good way. Stiles’ got a slow morning, so he offers to take Derek to the art supplies store he wants to go. It’s located in Brooklyn, so Stiles isn’t too excited, but there’s very little he wouldn’t do for Derek, these days.

So they meet downstairs, and Happy drives them to the shop. Derek considers every single board with great individual care, and Stiles is completely enamored with the process. Afterwards Derek steps out into the New York sunlight, and Stiles decides to take him to ice cream. On his own volition. God, _whatever_. They’re in Central Park when a bunch of children recognizes them, and before they notice they’re being smothered by fans, which is always okay. A very pretty Russian heiress offers Stiles her number, and Derek smiles at that, and Stiles reclines. Just because he can, _shut up._

Once they’ve managed to escape back to the car, they’re both laughing and out of breath, and Stiles doesn’t think the ache in his chest can be completely blamed on the arc reactor. Derek sobers up and starts playing with a bottle of water, and that’s when Stiles knows he’s got something on his mind.

"Home, Mr. Stilinski?” Happy asks.

“Not just yet,” Stiles replies, looking at Derek. “If you don’t want to.”

“I had a great time today.”

“But?”

“I just – I’ve been wondering.”

“I’ll never know your thoughts if they remain in your head, Cap.”

“Would you just stop?” Derek snaps.

Stiles’ breath hitches. This is what he’s been waiting for. The moment when Derek’s walls finally come crumbling down. “Stop what?”

“With the Cap thing. I don’t – I don’t want to be _Cap_ to you.”

“What then?”

“I thought I’d at least deserve to be called by my birth name.” Derek seems to pout at that, and Stiles is so, _so_ happy. This is progress. He’s the best seducer there’s ever been or will ever be. _Eat dirt, Lydia Martin._

“I’ll call you any name you want me to,” Stiles admits, and now Derek’s looking at him, really _looking_ , and this is the moment when Stiles shuffles a bit forward, just a little bit, and he can swear he hears his own pulse drumming at his ear.

“I was just wondering,” Derek starts.

Stiles smiles encourageously, he’s being so, so careful, he doesn’t want to ruin this now, not ever. “Yeah?”

“There’s just one thing I want to do.”

“Yes, Derek?”

Stiles is hypnotized, and in fucking _love_ , okay, he’s never wanted _one kiss_ so bad, and his poor heart is about to explode when Derek continues, “Could you possibly take me to the Calvary Cemetery?”

Stiles breathes in, out, numb. “To the… what?”

“In Queens. That’s where they told me… well… there’s something I gotta do.”

Stiles deflates. He should’ve known. “Yeah, sure,” he says, leans back. Puts on his sunglasses, even though the sun has already set an hour ago. “Happy? Queens, please.”

Stiles can’t look at Derek and take the gratitude. He just can’t. So they drive to Queens in silence, and Stiles feels so fucking uncomfortable once they get there and out of the car. Derek remains unspoken but he’s clearly looking for something, and when they stop in front of a pretty, white stone, Stiles doesn’t have to do anything else but take a look at the first name, and he knows.

He’s read the files, of course, and his dad spoke often of Paige, Derek’s first and probably last love. Paige, the amazing leading lady of Captain America’s life, and what could Stiles ever be compared to that?

It’s a bit of a surprise, when Derek starts talking about her. Stiles doesn’t want to listen, but he does. They stay at her grave for what feels like hours, and Derek cries a little. Stiles is dying to fly away. When Derek starts shaking, he lays a clammy hand on his shoulder. That’s when Stiles knows he could get to the point of realization Derek’s never gonna want him back, and yet Stiles would be there for him, would always be there for him. And if that’s not the epitome of true love, then he doesn’t know what is.

 

Stiles thinks Lydia knows, because she knows everything about everyone, so it’s a given, and Scott definitely knows which is somewhat of a wonder – the guy is a complete nutcase when it comes to feelings and relationship stuff, but maybe Stiles’ become so transparent even he notices. Which is just wonderful and most definitely not humiliating at all.

So Stiles does what he knows: he goes to parties, drinks a lot and ends up with lots of strangers in his bed. He feels dirty afterwards, when he’s sent them away with a little co-operation by Jarvis, and goes to the kitchen to see everybody shooting him disapproving looks. _It’s not like they didn’t know this was coming_ , Stiles scrunches his teeth when Lydia and Allison share a knowing look, _they fucking knew what I’m like, of course they know the playboy part was true, Lydia fucking nodded back in the helicarrier, what the fuck -_

And maybe it’s true. Maybe the others should’ve predicted this, this party-Stiles scheme to kick in sometime, but Derek, fuck, _Derek_ – the first time Stiles brought home a beautiful male model instead of a pretty actress, _Jesus_. His whole face had shut down when he was surprised with the following sight: Stiles was saying goodbye to the kid by the elevator door, with tongues and everything - the boy’d winked and with a careful thrust against Stiles’ hips, left the building.

Derek had only looked at Stiles, his eyes heavy and dark and challenging, and what the fuck was Stiles, a fucking mind-reader, was he supposed to know what Derek was trying to tell him, _what_?

In the end, their fucking strange little staring competition was interrupted only by the Assemble Alarm, both stumbling into action. In the field everything had been just fine, just lovely, dandy, _fine_ , but then Derek had went to see Deaton and met Braeden instead.

Derek hadn’t come home that night.

Stiles would’ve given anything for not having to fall asleep alone.

 

They’re on a mission, and everybody else is starting to finish off, the enemies defeated and crumbled on their feet, but Stiles is still up in the air, circling one flying robot motherfucker. He’s playing cat and mouse with it, knowing he’s gonna get it real good, still high on the adrenaline rush.

Lydia’s already snapping at him via radio communications to _just get the fuck down, Stilinski, I wanna go home and watch the Notebook_ , and the whole team is watching him. It’s stupid, that’s what it is, but Stiles remembers Derek’s words from a couple of months ago, _I love watching your armor, it’s like destructive art,_ and he really can’t help his need to show off. He wants Derek to look at him, to appreciate how smooth the Iron Man armor he’s built is, how Stiles has created something so awesome with his own hands, from the very scratch.

He wants to appear as powerful and seductive, wants for Derek to look at him and think, _isn’t he just so dwell_ , wants Derek to wonder whether Stiles could hold him up in the suit and fuck him against the Statue of Liberty. (Just for the record, he probably could. It’d be quite difficult, but even if it didn’t take at first – for Derek, he’d find a way.)

So Stiles keeps on toying with the robot, and that’s when Derek’s voice cuts through the helmet’s voice system. “Come on, Stiles. We don’t have the whole day.”

“Like you have anything better to do than watch me fly,” Stiles says, full of confidence.

The statement is met with silence. Which is unusual. “What, do you have something to do today?” Lydia asks.

“I’ve a – a date,” Derek confesses, “with Braeden. She lets me take her dancing.” And Stiles can _hear_ the smile in his voice, and that’s when he slips and the robot chirps, sending a blast on his way, scraping at his arm.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts frantically.

“I’m okay, I’m totally okay, _whoa_ ,” Stiles grunts, and turns on all his blast powers to burn the robot into a million little pieces. Which is _totally necessary_. “Anyway, I think I left – I know something’s burning in the lab, maybe a rat, or a woman, I don’t know. I’m gonna go back, you handle that – whatever you usually do,” Stiles isn’t making any sense and he knows it, but he will _not_ land to the others, to Derek, no way, not now.

“Stiles, are you – “ that’s Derek, and Stiles will not tolerate this anymore.

“All connection off, Jarvis,” he turns towards the mansion.

“Done, Sir,” Jarvis says, coolly. Stiles can feel the judgement through the armor, which is just crazy.

“Oh shut it, you old grunt.”

“Whatever your wishes are, Sir,” Jarvis says soothingly, and that’s it. Stiles flies back to the Avengers Mansion, locks himself into his lab and drinks until he passes out. Whoever said he can’t deal with his problems was right.

 

Stiles meets her when he’s so sleep-deprived that he’s practically half-unconscious, so he can’t really be blamed for not noticing the stranger in their living room.

“Stiles,” Lydia commands, her voice slitting like a whip through Stiles’ brains.

“Nope,” Stiles denies, “busy.” He’s raiding the refrigerator, not bothering to waste his time on something as common as the rest of the team’s movie night. Ok, maybe he’s playing a martyr, so what? He’s got every right to do so. He _owns_ the living room.

“Come meet Braeden,” Lydia sweetens up her voice, which is never a good sign.

“Who the fuck is Braeden?” Stiles rolls his eyes, not caring about anything else but getting his Chinese leftovers – if he digs in deep enough, sure he can find something edible –

“Let’s not bother him, he’s got things to do,” Derek says quick, muffled, and Stiles is in immediate alert.

“Nothing is more important than you, sweetie,” Stiles informs. Turns to take a better look at them all. There’s a very pretty brunette pressed up against Derek’s side, looking up at Stiles with an amused expression.

“Hi, I’m Braeden,” she smiles.

“Are those claw marks?” Stiles can’t stop staring at her neck.

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

“What?”

“It’s okay,” Braeden laughs. “Yeah, they are. I work with wolves. Accidents happen.”

“Cool,” Stiles manages. And then – nothing. Stiles Stilinski is at a loss of words. _Who would’ve figured this moment would come? Thank god Isaac’s not here, he would have a field day,_ is the only thought across his mind.

“So, you’re the one with – you’re together now. Huh.”

“Very elaborate,” Allison snorts. “Wanna come watch a movie with us?”

“Thanks, I try. Whose turn is it to decide?”

“Lydia’s.”

“Nah, I’ve got whole lot more important things to do than watching The Notebook for the 8th time this week. But thanks for the invitation, really, I’m touched,” Stiles bows, finally finding the leftovers. “Peace out.” He slams the refrigerator door close, hurries away as fast as his feet can carry.

“Stiles!” Erica calls after him, but Stiles is the master of pretend, so he’s not too bothered.

He’s really not. At least that’s what he tells himself when he’s eating cold rice in his workspace, staring at his empty walls. He tries to continue on the SuperJet design, but nothing ever evolves past a draft. He can’t stop his hands from shaking.

 

It’s not until Stiles gets hurt that they finally talk again. It’s been months of broken communication, practically just avoidance on Stiles’ part, so when the dam opens, it’s nearing the proportions of a flood.

It’s after a fight against fucking Loki, out of all the people (or can he be counted as _people_? Stiles’ never been quite sure), and Erica’s pretty shaken after having to meet her stepbrother in such sullen circumstances. Well, nobody’s happy exactly. Derek’s definitely not, judging by how he’s screaming in Stiles’ face.

Stiles is trying to stop his leg from bleeding, and he’s basking in the glory of finally having Derek for himself, again, but then Derek delivers him a verbal slam dunk.

“Right now you’re just a burden!”

“What the hell, Cap?”

“You’re only human, Stiles. Accept it,” Derek says.

It makes Stiles want to vomit. “Wow,” he laughs. His throat is dry. “You’re such an asshole. What about Boyd, huh? Or, or Lydia? Alli? What about them?”

“They’re not stupid like you,” Derek grits out. “They accept the fact that this is a team, not a one-man-show – fucking hell, Stiles,” Derek spits, and everybody raises their brows, this is some real meltdown unfurling right before their eyes.

Stiles has never been great at refraining from poking the hornets’ nest. Sue him. “Did I get a _curse_ out of you? Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner.”

“Stop,” Derek’s voice is shaking. “This isn’t funny, it’s not a game, stop treating this like it’s something to laugh at. You got hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly died, Stilinski.” Derek shakes his head. “You are of zero use to me if you’re not capable of listening to orders.”

And wow, if that doesn’t stir Stiles. Back to surnames, right. That’s all they are. Teammates. _If he wants to play, I can be the villain all day_ , he thinks. “Go fuck yourself and the high horse you rode in on,” Stiles mumbles. “I’m out.”

He flies away. Scott comes after him. Stiles fires his repulsors at him, not anything damaging, of course, but enough to make clear he wants none of the human interaction right now. No, thanks, he’s had about enough. Right now he’s got only two friends in this whole entire world, and they’re named vodka and whiskey.

 

Stiles is not entirely certain if he’s dead or not. All he knows is that his head is pounding, and the only muscle he can move is his tongue, just so he can taste the dead rat’s ass in his mouth.

Lovely. Don’t ever say Stiles doesn’t do classy.

He also does acknowledge the fact that he’s shaking, for some reason. And there’s definitely voices. Derek’s and Jarvis’ voices, to be precise, and they’re conversing in hushed tones.

It takes a moment until Stiles realizes he’s being princess carried in Derek’s sure, strong arms. It takes a moment for Derek to notice Stiles has reached consciousness again.

“Really, Stiles,” Derek sighs after a moment of silence. “One day, you are going to have to tell me what‘s going on with you.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t you just love to know,” Stiles mumbles, limbs heavy. His brain is killing him.

A door opens, and Stiles knows that if he could find the will to care, he’d be dying of embarrassment right now. He must smell absolutely vile, and he’s been behaving like an ass for the past days, yet Derek tucks him gently in bed, pulls the covers over his body.

“Good night.”

Stiles doesn’t answer. If he had any energy left to do so, he would curl up into a miserable little ball. As it is that he’s completely drained, he’s only expecting to hear a door slam shut and fall asleep to his nightmares.

There’s no steps, but only a ghost-like pair of warm, dry lips pressed against his forehead; a gentle hand running swiftly, briefly over his unruly hair.

It’s not nightmares but sheer, desperate confusion Stiles falls asleep to; mixed up with (what he won’t admit (but knows to be true)) just the smallest weight of _hope_.

 

Exactly nineteen days, eight hours, five minutes and about 23 seconds later, Stiles makes his amends. He cannot and absolutely will not go on without talking to Derek. He can’t stand it, and if this is the first time in his life he’s ever been the first to apologize, well – it’s a good thing he’s started that nobility with Captain America.

“Sorry, are we talking again?” Derek snips at him when Stiles dares to interrupt his peaceful reading.

“Can you just listen.” Stiles shuffles on his feet.

“I’m not in the mood of getting my head chopped off, but thanks.” Derek is not fucking around.

“Come on.”

“Is it serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Life-or-death-serious?”

“Well – no.”

“Then I’m comfortable right here.” Derek settles down.

“Derek.” Stiles says, with little to no impact. He inhales very profoundly, and lets all pride fall. “Please.”

‘Please’ and Stiles don’t associate well, so even Derek must know how big of a deal this is. “Fine.”

Derek gets into his feet, and Stiles leads them into his lab. There’s a big fucking gift box waiting for their arrival. Like, the biggest box there’s ever been. Stiles is a bit proud. “Open it.”

“Is there anything inside that could kill me?” Derek is wary. Within reason, probably, considering how many times Stiles has managed to blow up something in the lab.

“No. Well, I don’t think so. Or that’d be one of the weirdest deaths ever, I’d think.”

“Not really helpful.”

“Come on, you big baby. It’s yours.” Stiles can’t resist getting excited. He loves giving gifts. He talks better with money and material than words.

Derek does as he’s told. It takes him ages to cut through the wrapping, and Stiles is dying a little with every passing second, but when Derek is complete with his task and finds himself face to face with his motorcycle from 70 years ago, all restored to it’s original glory, well – his face is worth it all.

“What?” Derek stammers. Stiles has never seen him quite so shocked, not even when they once stumbled upon Boyd surrounded by a bunch of birds in their living room, talking to them. (Stiles is still not sure if he’s living with an in real life Disney princess, or whether Boyd was just fucking with them all. He’s learned to let some things go.)

“Do you like it? I did the paint job myself, and I’m not really sure about the exact shade, but I did my best,” Stiles explains. Derek remains silent, and he’s getting a little bit nervous, here. “If you don’t like it, we can change it all, of course, here, just lemme – “

“Stiles. Shut up.” Derek finally lays his fingers upon the engine. Stiles is basically vibrating everywhere, just waiting for the slightest word of objection to escape Derek’s mouth. It doesn’t come. What does arrive is a slight sob.

“Oh, don’t – come on. I didn’t – Derek, please.”

“This is amazing. Where’d you get it?”

“My dad’s had it the whole time. He’s kept it for you, and, well, now you’re here, so I thought I’d finish the job.”

Derek keeps nodding. He looks like he’s completely lost down some memory lane. When he speaks, Stiles jumps a little.

“This used to be my sister’s.”

“Yeah?”

“Laura’s.”

“That’s… good.” Stiles is scared out of his mind. He knows what’s happened to Derek’s family, and so far he’s never, _ever_ heard him utter one single word of any of them.

“Yeah. Can I take her out?” Derek straightens up.

“Absolutely. Right when you want to.”

“Tonight?”

Stiles scrambles at the table. “Here’s the keys.”

Derek accepts them and then he just stares. “So, I just wanted to – I know I can be – “ Stiles starts to mumble, every single cell of his body screaming against apologizing, but it’s all unnecessary because suddenly he’s wrapped inside Derek’s arms like the sexiest burrito _ever_.

Derek puts his head on Stiles’ shoulder, accidentally rubbing his stubble all over Stiles’ neck. He breathes wetly in and Stiles doesn’t dare to move a muscle. “Thanks.” Derek pulls finally away.

“You can stay. Jarvis will tell you how to proceed.”

“Thanks,” Derek repeats, eyes on the motorcycle.

“You’re welcome, big guy,” Stiles says, casual as fuck, and then gets the fuck out of there as fast as he can.

 

It’s probably the 30th time they’ve prevented New York from being demolished, and this time it’s Isaac’s turn to get hurt. Magneto showed up and threw a _truck_ at him, so he’s been hospitalized. Derek and Stiles are the ones staying beside his bed, waiting for him to wake up.

Stiles has gotten out of his armor, and he’s currently dressed in hospital pants and little else. Derek’s wearing his suit, but he’s still got soot and other unidentified dirt on his face. He’s very sexy like that, Stiles muses. Then again, to him Derek is always sexy, even that time when Erica had made him wear an Pikachu onesie, so that’s neither here or there.

Stiles is screwing around with his phone, while Derek is just silent. Stiles waits. He’s learned to recognize Derek’s moods, and right now it’s apparent he’s got a war on his mind. He’s not to be disappointed; finally Derek opens his mouth.

“Do you ever feel like it’s too much?”

“No,” it doesn’t take long for Stiles to answer, “I’m not responsible for anyone but myself.”

“We’re a team, though.”

“We’re all here voluntarily.”

Derek looks at his hands. “I should’ve been quicker.”

“And I should’ve been smarter. Or Scott could’ve been stronger. It’s a moot point.”

“A what?”

“Nevermind,” Stiles says. “Look, you can’t protect all of us at the same time. No-one can.”

“But if I don’t do it, who will?”

“That’s my whole, entire point. You can’t keep us safe, and none of us expect you to. Someday we’ll all get hurt, and you’ll just have to deal with it.”

“This is not the speech of consolation I was waiting for.”

“I won’t coddle you.”

“I know.” Derek actually seems happy at that. He sighs and runs a hand through his dirty hair. “I just worry about you all. I feel like you’re mine. Don’t you?”

“I guess that’s the difference between me and you,” Stiles muses, “You’re a hero. I’m just here for my ego’s sake.”

He flashes a great smile, but Derek only frowns. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s true.” Stiles shrugs. Derek’s frown deepens, and he opens his mouth, but there’s a beep on Isaac’s monitor. Everything rushes into action and there’s a lot of cute nurses out there, Stiles can’t help but notice.

Isaac is okay, but he’ll have to stay at the hospital for the night. Stiles and Derek get home. Stiles has nightmares where Derek’s been trapped into a house that’s set on fire. Stiles isn't wearing his Iron Man armor, so he’s forced to watch as everything he’s learned to hold dear burns into ashes.

 

Stiles may not be fully functioning yet due to the lack of caffeine, but he does notice the strange guy leaving their breakfast table. Everybody else waves after him and Stiles doesn’t dare to differ from the rule, slightly afraid they’ve gone and signed a new member and he just hasn’t noticed. Once the stranger’s gone, though, he has to ask. “Who was that?”

Everybody starts smiling. It’s Allison who raises her voice. “You should ask Derek.”

“Well?”

“Nobody,” Derek mumbles, concentrating on his waffles.

"Doesn’t that sound convincing.”

“He was just a guy. Nothing more.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. Takes in Erica’s proud smile, Isaac and Allison’s bickering, and the way Derek’s cheeks are starting to burn. Stiles’ survival instinct kicks in right away with the acceptable amount of adrenaline. “Wait, he… stayed here? With you?” he clears his throat. “The whole night?”

“Derek’s bed is warm again,” Erica notifies with great happiness.

“But – but – what happened to Braeden?” Stiles doesn’t get what’s happening, not _at all._

“That? It was over a long time ago,” Derek shrugs as it doesn’t matter at all, as if the whole foundation of Stiles’ life hasn’t just been pulled from under his feet.

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“Are you okay, Stiles?” Erica concerns. “I’m fine,” Stiles forces himself to smile. He stuffs his mouth with such many curled fries it’s a small miracle he doesn’t choke.

“Yes, you are,” Derek says, smiling. He takes a cheap, sweeping look at Stiles’ body.

_Was that – is he flirting? Is he into guys, too? Am I real?_ Stiles cannot get a grasp of reality. Everybody else starts talking about Deaton’s new training system, but Stiles’ whole world has changed for good.

 

Stiles is working on a new and improved version of Mark, when he gets the scare of his lifetime. “You should probably stop,” Lydia says from some corner she’s currently occupying.

“How in the hell did you even get here, through all my top security,” Stiles holds his chest, turning to her. He changes his mind right away. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know, it’ll probably just make me depressed. And you don’t even know what I’m doing,” he says with suspicion. Lydia has proved herself to be one of the most brilliant minds he’s ever had the pleasure to know, but advanced armor technology is not exactly her strongest point.

Lydia raises one brow and drops the bomb. “You’re trying to get it on with Derek.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles splutters. He puts the flamethrower away very cautiously.

“Let’s not pretend, Stiles.”

“What the hell are you – I mean – I didn’t… okay, why should I stop?”

“You’ll hurt him.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You will,” Lydia says. So far she’s been all stone and distantness, but now the look in her eyes softens. “Maybe not completely intentionally, but you will. And the rest of us will have to pick up the pieces.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stiles’ mouth is dry. He’s doesn't feel like crying, _not at all, shut up._

“I’ve been watching you and him. And I know you.”

“You don’t know shit about me. Just because you’ve read some files – “

“Stiles,” Lydia gets closer to him, “I know you. And I’m saying this as much for your sake as his, alright? I didn’t – I wouldn’t have interfered, but he spoke to me, and I thought. Well.”

“What? What did he say?”

“That is irrelevant.” Stiles searches for something, any kind of clue, but there’s nothing to be read from Lydia’s unyielding face. Lydia smoothens out her skirt and nods. “I just thought I would do my best to say something. So I did. And it would be wise for you to seek attention from somewhere else.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing with him?” Stiles bristles. “Seeking attention?”

“What else could it be?” Lydia asks innocently and turns to go. Her heels are clicking against the floor, and the gears in Stiles’ head are turning. Lydia is ruthless, but she’s not malicious. _This must mean something,_ Stiles knows it, but he’s tired and not in the mood of analyzing Lydia’s mind games. Nah. Next time he sees Derek, he’ll ask. He’ll man up and he will just _ask_.

The thought makes him feel good, _great_. He’s filled with excitement and the feeling that for once in his life, he is going to do something _right_.

 

Stiles is drunk, sloshed, absolutely smashed, what have you, and that is probably the reason why he’s petting at Derek’s biceps with a huge boner.

“You’re a work of art,” Stiles slurs. He knows he should stop, but he can’t, he really just can’t control himself around Derek, anymore. “If I knew how, I’d paint you. Just like a French girl.” Stiles giggles at his own joke. He can’t help that he’s so terribly funny.

They’re having a party because Stiles wanted to throw one, and let’s be real, they practically live on the edge of death every single day, so they’ve got the right to live a little. Stiles does not admit to any other reason for why he wanted them all to gather in one place, nope. Take those impure thoughts away from him.

Erica has called upon some friends from Asgard, and the living room is a living catastrophe. It’ll cost a small fortune for Stiles to get it all repaired, but right now he couldn’t care less. He just laughs watching the things happening under his roof, and wow, there’s so many things, _everything is happening so much_. But he does not care about that. He only cares about Derek.

Derek, who is looking at him with such a strange expression. There’s some exhaustion, but also what Stiles chooses to interpret as fondness. Stiles is satisfied. He’s finally worn Derek out. “Your eyes are so amazing, have I ever told you that? I mean, what is that color, even?” Stiles squints his own eyes, gets closer. Gets pushed away.

“You’re drunk.”

“Why, yes I am. You’re not. If we’re just stating the obvious, here,” Stiles turns his charm on. It works every single time. Except on Derek, because he just loves ruining Stiles’ life like that.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to your bed.”

“Is that an offer?”

“What would that be an offer for?”

Stiles smirks. “Oh, you know. If you just wanna see my bed, you should say so.” He puts his hand back on Derek’s chest.

Derek is… not smiling, yep, definitely not smiling. Abort mission. “Stop this.”

“Stop what?” Stiles has always been the type to strum the ‘Do not push’-button. He’s a little shit and he loves it.

Stiles is smiling at his own wit self-congratulatory, when Derek takes Stiles’ hand between his own, brings it to his lips. Presses a tiny little kiss on his knuckles, whispers his words against them. “I‘m not going to be like all of your girls, Stiles.”

_What girls? There hasn’t been anyone, not since you,_ Stiles almost - _almost_ \- says. And wouldn’t it be so easy to offer his heart for Derek to trample, but it’s getting all a bit too much and he’s absolutely trapped, and that feeling should only ever be associated with bedtime activities.

There’s so many things Stiles wants to say, so many things he _should_ say, so in the end he doesn’t say anything honest and chickens out, instead. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying,” he takes a cheap, cheap shot and hates himself for that, turns on his heels and fills his glass once more. Tries not to think about the look on Derek’s face, filled with disappointment on Stiles’ behalf.

 

Stiles swallows down his bitter embarrassment, and Derek doesn’t treat him any different the day after, so all is forgiven and forgotten. Except not. Because they go to Las Vegas.

It’s Erica and Scott’s idea, and nobody has too much against it, so Vegas it is. Stiles pays for all of them, naturally, and they take the tours and cause so much frenzy they have to accept to a security team for their own protection. (Which is just ridiculous, because who else could defense themselves better than a bunch of superheroes, hello? But then again Stiles has always wanted to live one day like Kim Kardashian, so he gladly accepts.)

They laugh and drink and get dressed up, and Scott is so ridiculously excited it makes Stiles happy, too. They ride a limo to a club, and Stiles just takes it in; all the flashing lights, the beautiful, extraordinary city filled with life all around them, and his team, his people, his – his _friends_ , who are all joking, and he takes a deep breath and smiles. This is his life, now. Stiles has never been the type to be thankful for anything, no, everything he’s got has been earned with hard work, but right now he feels _privileged_.

They go to one of the most luxurious night clubs Stiles has ever set a foot in. Stiles is pleasantly buzzed, and talking with Boyd, who’s hilariously drunk and flashing his impressive biceps in every direction possible. Scott sits next to Stiles and he looks passed out or then he’s on drugs, but he stays calm, so that’s great.

It all comes crumbling down when Stiles sees Derek. On the dance floor. With a guy. Or two guys, actually. He’s smothered between them. And the guys are both very good looking, twins, if Stiles can judge correctly through all the smoke and people, but the thing is, see, that they’ve got hands on Derek. All over him. And that’s when the one dancing behind him puts his fingers on Derek’s impossibly gorgeous jawline, turns Derek’s head and pulls at him until their lips are touching.

Stiles sees _red_.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moved until he’s staring at Derek, who’s blushed, nervous and confused. “Stiles?”

“Get the fuck away from him,” Stiles snaps at the twins, and they scatter right away in fear.

“What now,” Derek sighs. The crowd around them hasn’t stopped moving, and Stiles isn’t one to object to the public’s wishes.

“Shut up,” Stiles is somewhat annoyed, and aligns his body against Derek. The lights are flashing in blue and white all around them, and when Stiles pushes his hand under Derek’s shirt, he can feel the sweat and fuck, they’re being swallowed by the other dancers and they’re so close they’re sharing the same oxygen.

Derek keeps looking at him, and it’s driving Stiles crazy. He puts his hands on Derek’s hips and the sudden realization hits him like a brick.

“You’re hard,” he whispers into Derek’s ear.

Derek does not yield. He pushes his crotch against Stiles’, so that their cocks are touching through the denim. “So are you,” Derek murmurs. “Is that… could that be something you want?”

Stiles grabs at Derek’s hand, pulls him near. “Let’s get out of here.”

Derek nods, and so they do.

 

“Yeah, been wanting you like this for ages,” Stiles pants against Derek’s neck, pushing him up against the suite’s door.

“Stiles,” Derek’s scratching at his back, rolling his hips against Stiles’ own. “Stiles, fuck.”

“I know.” Stiles nods desperately, pulling at Derek’s shirt, his only goal is to reach the skin. The shirt does go off, and Stiles finds his personal paradise on Earth. He licks at Derek’s mouth, pushes his tongue in as far as he can, all the while Derek’s arching his back, moaning like a wanton slut.

Derek struggles a bit. “Wait.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Stiles asks, immediately alarmed, his tight grip on Derek’s arms loosening up, and fuck but isn’t this strange, nobody’s ever said anything like this to Stiles, he’s not used to hearing people say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or even this fucking ‘ _wait_ ’, they always want him to go fast as if in fear he’ll change his mind any second, like he’s just playing and in total, utter control -

Not today, though, not right at this moment, and they both know it. Derek Hale might be a shy, somewhat inexperienced guy who’s a bit awkward and fumbling with skin-to-skin contact, but _fuck_ , Derek Hale is also Captain America, and that part of him is not afraid of Iron Man, is not the slightest bit afraid of Stiles fucking Stilinski, and goddamnit if that doesn’t get Stiles hot under the collar.

(Domination --- that’s what this is about, and _for once in his life_ Stiles finds that he wants to be taken, not the taker.)

“No, I just – can we move this somewhere else, I want you on a bed,” Derek’s begging or at least that’s what it sounds like.

Stiles sighs in relief. That, he can fix. “Come on,” he leads them to the bedroom. They take off the little what’s left of their clothes, and Derek pushes Stiles on the bed. Kisses him deep and so sweet Stiles can’t take it anymore.

Derek forces Stiles open on his cock, makes him keen and praises him all the while, confesses how he’s wanted to see Stiles like this for so long, how great he looks, how he makes Derek feel _so good_. Stiles is panting and moaning with Derek’s hand on his cock, and Derek pushes in deeper, harder, and then Stiles is coming, coming, _coming_ , Derek following soon after.

 

It’s - when Stiles starts to think about it, and he does that kinda often – it’s only natural. Something unpredictable, perhaps, but mulled over in cold logistics, it’s almost laughable how easy it should’ve been to foresee. Stiles has always been a hedonist, an egomaniac who does not settle for anything but the best. Be it whatever; a car, a telephone, a secretary - _a fucking relationship_ \--- he demands for the absolutely brightest diamonds, always polished, always perfected to the last drop. It’s the reason for why Stiles loves creating, loves building things; he’s the mastermind, he makes the absolute perfect products, he sees how he can shape stuff that thrives for brilliance. That’s what he does.

Stiles is high-maintenance, so shouldn’t he have seen it from the first second they met? If Stiles’ ever going to do a relationship properly, it would’ve have to be with the most perfect specimen ever, and really, it’s not like human species come in any better shape than _Captain fucking America._

But if there’s one thing Stiles has always been able to admit about himself, is that he’s a jealous fucking bastard. So when they’re at yet another charity ball and he sees Braeden, gorgeous Braeden in her gorgeous Elie Saab gown talking to Derek, pressing her perfectly manicured hand against his chest and they’re both laughing – well, he _flips the fuck out_. He drinks the rest of his champagne in one big gulp, goes to the bar and orders a whole bottle of whiskey, manages to drink until he feels like an asshole again, and then he looks at Derek, who smiles at him from across the room, and smiles, too. _Then_ he very slowly, very deliberately goes into the sitting area where there’ a couple of young, already Oscar-nominated actresses just waiting to be hit on, and he works his magic.

Both of the girls are giggling at his jokes, when a shadow falls upon them. Lydia is tapping her heel against the floor, looking at Stiles with absolute murder in her eyes.

“Why won’t you join us, Lyds,” Stiles feels miserable and it’s been a long time since he’s last felt like the only thing he ever does is play a role.

“Get up, Stilinski.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Yes,” Lydia grits through her teeth, and flashes a sweet smile to the actresses. “I’m going to need him for a moment.”

“Sure, sure,” they breathe out, in complete awe of basking in the presence of Lydia.

“Stilinski. _Now_.”

“Alright, alright,” Stiles gives up. “Sorry, muffins. But I’m a man of my word, and I will come get you after this is through, alright?” Stiles winks. The ladies giggle. Lydia gets a grip on his elbow and drags him away.

“Jesus, woman, let go of me,” Stiles complains.

Lydia takes them outside to a balcony, turns to shoot figurative daggers at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Having fun. What about you? You look lovely today, Lyds.”

“Where’s Derek?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Braeden.”

“Stiles!” Lydia is _not_ amused. “He left. About an hour ago. After watching you with those irrelevant blonde things out there.”

“I’ll have you know they were both extremely delightful and smart. One of them is a Harvard law graduate.”

“Do I look like I care?” Lydia’s mouth is curled in disgust. “Jesus fuck, Stiles. I can’t believe you’ve done this so fucking quickly.”

“How am I the bad guy, here?”

“How are you not?”

“I saw him with – nevermind.” Stiles is not some pathetic little schoolgirl who needs to pour their heart out to a confidant. No, he’s a grown ass man who drowns his sorrows with whiskey. Because that’s obviously _so much better_.

“With whom?”

“Who cares. It’s over.”

“You’re so weak.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.” Lydia sighs. “What’s going on in here?”

“He was – he and Braeden. They were, you know. All that jazz.”

“Braeden.”

“So I said.”

“You saw him with – oh. _Oh_. Well, that makes sense. Not.” Lydia closes her eyes, sighs. “What the hell am I going to do with you? Stiles, there’s nothing between them.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m fucking serious here.” Lydia grabs at Stiles’ chin and forces him to look at her. “Hey. He wants you. For some godsaken reason I’ve not worked out yet, but he does.”

“But why would anyone?” Stiles whines. He tries not to admit to the honesty in his words.

“How should I know,” Lydia says, but she’s smiling a bit. “Now. I’m gonna take you home, and you’re gonna make this up to Derek, am I clear?”

“No. Yeah. I don’t know.”

“You’re so fucking lucky to have him, you know that, right? And don’t look at me like that, I’m not after him. I just think you should be reminded to not to fuck this up, time after time. Because you… well, I’ve made my opinion clear. You’re not exactly what I would pick for him, but Derek’s… he’s happy with you. And I like seeing him smile, so.” Lydia looks pretty annoyed at having to talk about something as boring as feelings instead of mathematics.

“Wow,” Stiles can only nod, “yeah. So.”

“Let’s go.”

They get home, and Stiles drinks a lot of water. He’s standing behind Derek’s door, just trying to gather some courage, when the door opens on its own merits.

Derek blinks at him, his amazing physique in full display, with sleepy eyes and a messy bedhead and those broad fucking shoulders, and Stiles swallows heavily. “I thought I heard someone,” Derek says. Stands there wiggling his toes. _He’s got even beautiful toes,_ Stiles notices. _Life is so unfair._

“Can I come in?” is what he says out loud.

“You sure you want to?”

“Yeah.”

Derek steps aside, lets Stiles in. Scrambles between the sheets again, leaving Stiles to undress on his own. Stiles feels horribly out of place, and when he finally slips next to Derek, he only meets his back. Stiles raises a hand, traces a fingertip against Derek’s tattoo, wishes he were braver than this.

Derek turns. It’s dark, but his eyes are glinting. “Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?”

“Do what?”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles can’t remember the last time he’s felt this ashamed. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles it softly against the pillow, but it’s still an apology, an _offer_.

“I know.” Derek closes his eyes. “Goodnight.”

“’Night.” Stiles whispers. He lays there, panic creeping on his mind, and he is just about to get up and leave, when Derek shuffles so that their legs are touching. Stiles lets out a deep breath. It’s not perfect, but right now it’s enough. It has to be.

 

On Valentine’s Day, Stiles doesn’t take Derek out. No, instead he kicks everybody else out of the mansion, and arranges so that they enjoy a very fine meal on the roof, and there’s fireworks and all that buzz. They talk for hours, and they laugh and Stiles hasn’t ever been so crazy about anybody. Their senses of humor just mix together flawlessly, and the banter is so fucking lovely, Derek gives it back just as good as he gets.

They don’t even kiss, at all. Stiles tries to, but Derek just smiles and holds his hand, continues talking about the purpose of life. They watch the sunrise, and they go to Stiles’ bed together. Derek doesn’t want to have sex, even though he’s noticeably hard, but he does ask for Stiles to be the big spoon. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to fulfill other person’s wishes.

 

Eventually, they do get to the sex part, and it is _mind-blowing_. But sometimes Stiles gets the feeling Derek’s holding something back, so he decides to investigate. Right now Stiles is staring at the wall on Derek’s bedroom, the laptop on the table still on, displaying Derek’s search history. Stiles hasn’t been able to move for what must be about 45 minutes.

Finally the door opens. Derek steps in and Stiles comes back to life.

“Stiles?” Derek blinks. He’s just come from the gym so he’s all sweaty and delicious.

Stiles cracks his knuckles, can’t help but grin like a maniac. “So, you’ve been curious.”

“What are you doing?”

“I got bored. Then I got entertained. My, my, Derek. You’ve really decided to put that Internet connection into good use, huh?”

“Did you go – you went through my stuff.” Derek groans. He’s starting to blush, _fuck yeah_.

“Not necessarily. I may have… well, yeah, I did.” Stiles is not even ashamed.

“Lydia says that’s not right.”

“You been talking to Lydia about, what, confidentiality? Come on. And I’m not judging. Nothing to be ashamed of, love.”

“I know.” Derek steps out of his pants, leaving him in only tight black Under Armours. Stiles’ mouth waters at the sight. “And there’s no need to gloat. I don’t regret anything.”

“Like I said, not judging here,” Stiles raises his hands. “Although I am quite intrigued. If you had any questions, which, well, is apparent that you did - you could’ve just come to me.”

“I come to you every night,” Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles is bubbling with delight. “Was that an innuendo? I’ve never been this turned on. Come on, babe. Tell me your fantasies.”

“You just read them, I suppose.” Derek nods at the laptop.

“I did, but where’s the fun in me doing all the work? Tell me.”

Derek sits on the bed, shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I want you to show me.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“Anything. Everything. I just want – you.” And Derek is so earnest that it actually fucking _hurts_ Stiles physically.

Stiles is weak, weak, _weak_. But he’s also completely taken by Derek, so he’s got no fucks to give, anymore. He gets up from the chair and pushes Derek against the mattress. “Fuck it, we can – let’s slow bone.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I’ll show you.”

And Stiles does. Boy, does he _ever_.

 

It’s not like Stiles has never been attracted to other people, and that’s what makes this so ridiculous. He can’t stop fucking _staring_. Sure he’s known lust, lots of it, thank you very much, he’s wanted pretty waitresses or flight servants or what-fucking-ever there are, in his bed, and he’s never been afraid to be vocal about it, but there’s something about Derek. Or to be more precise, something about how Stiles can’t control himself around Derek.

It makes him mad, and it makes him frustrated, but mostly just - _scared_.

It’s one of those massive public events organized by Lydia, because she loves being America’s sweetheart and none of the others want nor dare to deny that from her. FAO Schwarz is filled to the brim with people, mostly kids dressed up as Avengers and their parents who pretend to be there only for the kiddos, but who always find a way to take selfies with the heroes. Stiles mostly hangs in the back and pretends he’s not mad at Boyd and Lydia being the fan favorites. He’s not jealous, take that away from him, and besides, he’s got a lot better things to do.

All of his attention is focused in six feet tall wall of muscles, who’s just finished hugging an adorable blonde girl dressed in a Howling Commando suit. If Stiles took a quick picture, no-one will ever know besides him and Jarvis.

Derek gets up smiling, waves at an assistant, sneaks into the backroom. Stiles is on his feet in a second.

He slips in behind the curtains, and waits until he hears the toilet flush. The door opens and Derek is surprised at seeing Stiles, but it’s too late, Stiles pushes his greedy hands against Derek’s glorious pecs and pushes him right back in, locks the door urgently behind them.

Stiles is wearing his Iron Man armor, but that has never stopped him from getting what he wants, so he says it out loud, too. “I fucking need you right now”, he breathes hotly into Derek’s beard, and gives Jarvis the command to strip away the armor, and so what if the pieces are cluttering extremely fucking loudly to the floor, leaving no questions to outsiders what could possibly be happening here? So fucking what?

Derek’s breathing heavily. _Jackpot_ , Stiles thinks, ready to get to the killer move which is biting at Derek’s neck, but strong, gentle hands grab at his wrists. “Not right here, you don’t.”

Derek’s shaking his head, but he’s smiling so Stiles can at least console himself with the fact that he’s still got it. But whatever, he’s got zero time or patience for Derek’s refusal right now. He attacks again, grinning against Derek’s mouth, letting his hands wander all around that hot, tight little body.

“Try and deny me.”

“Stiles, no.”

“Why not?”

“There are children out there. There’s… an image to uphold.”

“Do you think I care?”

“You should. Ah – don’t, please,” Derek groans as Stiles sneaks his capable fingers at Derek’s promisingly growing bulge.

“We should definitely take these off,” Stiles mutters as he’s groping at Derek’s suit. “Why’s there gotta be so much pants, what the hell?”

“Stiles,” Derek complains, this time taking hold of his hands, stilling the actions. “Later.”

“Later what?”

Derek looks at the door, as if to make sure nobody else will hear. Isn’t he the cutest thing _ever_? “Behave and later on I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Anything?”

“Don’t we both know that’s what you want?”

“Really? You’re angling for dirty talk, now?” Stiles’ smile is genuine. “Alright, sweetie. Bring it on. Why don’t you tell me, huh? You’re going to make sweet love to me tonight?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “No,” he says with pure honey in his voice. He’s accepted the challenge. “But right now, you know what I want you to do? I want you to go back home. I don’t care what excuse you’ll give, make up anything, but you go straight home. I’ll close up in here. I’ll hug the kids and smile for the parents and exchange niceties with the employees. I’ll praise Lydia so much she’ll be happy for a whole week, I promise. And then? Then I’ll change the suit and hail a cab, and I won’t be in a hurry. And when I get back to the mansion, I’ll say hi to the rest of the team, they’re having a movie night – but you? I’m going to come to our bedroom, and I’ll see you there, naked and spread, and you’re gonna hold your ass open for me, all wet already because you want it so bad, don’t you, my cock in your needy little hole. You’ll moan when you hear me come in and then moan again when I push myself in you, and I’m gonna fuck you so deep and hard and so _good_ , you’ll learn to behave with me, because if you behave, I’ll reward you. I’ll always reward you.”

Stiles is in seventh heaven. Done and dusted. Poof. Derek’s just smirking, the bastard.

“So why don’t you save that up for me, and I’ll see you in a few hours, alright? How’s that sound, sweetie?” Derek smiles. Stiles is completely incapable of forming words. “I thought so.”

Derek fixes his hair quickly and gives Stiles a quick kiss on the cheek. Stiles is left in the bathroom all alone, thinking about phrases like _love of my life_ and _I’m fucked._

 

Stiles is in the middle of having lunch with Heather, who’s as gorgeous and efficient as always, when he blurts out, “Did you know I was in love with you?”

“He’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?” Heather smiles, and how she manages that without any trace of bitterness, will forever and always be a mystery to Stiles.

“Just answer the question.”

“If you want to tell him, just do so.”

“But I – I did tell you, didn’t I?”

“Honestly, no,” Heather puts her fork aside. “But I knew. With every outrageously expensive gift, with every time you saved me from the monster of the week, every time you showed me there’s more to you than just the ego,” Heather smiles, nods towards his chest, “I knew.”

Stiles is oddly touched. “And was that enough?”

“If it were, I don’t think I would’ve left you,” Heather says softly.

“Oh.”

“It’s not a bad thing. I just – I guess I need something else,” she will not make apologies for herself and that is something Stiles has always liked about her.

“Okay. Yeah, me too.” He notices her look and rolls his eyes. “Shut up. It’s practically ass o’clock, I don’t want to make sense yet.”

They finish their lunch, and they’re saying goodbye in front of the restaurant, when Heather opens her mouth. “Tell him, though. Just go ahead and say it.”

“Maybe.”

“No. Do it today. Unless you want to, you know…” Heather shrugs. ‘Lose him like you lost me’ is left unsaid, but the message is very clear.

“Yeah,” Stiles swallows. “Thanks, Heather. For everything.” It hurts a bit less than he would’ve thought.

“You’re welcome,” Heather smiles. “Now, excuse me, I have your company to run.”

Stiles gives her a kiss on her cheek, watches her leave. He gestures at Happy and lets him drive him home. When he stumbles upon his bedroom he’s greeted with the sight of Derek taking a nap on his bed. He is buried under the covers, eyes closed and snuggled tight against the pillow. _What right do I have to touch him?_ Stiles thinks with only misery in his heart. He presses a kiss on Derek’s forehead, and goes to his lab to play with Dummy. Back to the darkness and technology where he can’t hurt anybody but himself.

 

So, Derek’s got an uncle. Stiles is not sure how it works, because isn’t that said uncle supposed to be, like, at least 90 or whatever the hell, but oh, it seems that the Hale genes are pretty sturdy stuff, would sell 100% full price on the black market, or at least that’s what Stiles thinks as he watches Peter Hale flying in his cape and helmet all around New York bending the buildings as he goes. “Magneto did it better,” Stiles screams at him and dodges a school bus sent his way. "You're pure trash, Peter," he yells and ducks a police car.

Derek is pale and cursing, and Stiles can tell how much this means to him, can always tell by how Derek’s not trying to ensure the civilians’ safety like he usually does, but instead his target is locked on, and whoa boy, Peter Hale is going to _get it_. Not like that, though. Well, maybe. Stiles has said yes, many times in many different positions to twin girls, and he’s not about to get all high and mighty about incest just now.

But right now, it all comes crashing down because when Stiles’ life is good, somebody will always find a way to turn it into lemons. That said somebody is Peter Hale. Stiles will blame Peter Hale for _everything_ , from this day on.

Stiles’ got a clear shot on Peter, and Deaton’s screaming commands in his ear, shoot, shoot, shoot, so Stiles does. He aims and a repulsor blast cuts nicely, neatly through Peter Hale’s chest.

Stiles lands where everybody else is gathered. Erica congratulates him on a job well done, and Stiles smiles his thanks and gets closer to Derek, ready to accept his gratitude. What he gets is something entirely else, though.

“How many times, Stiles.”

“How many times what?”

“You’re not the only one here,” Derek’s eyes are blazing.

“I took care of the bad guy, I’d say I did only what I was supposed to,” Stiles says, carefully. They haven’t had a fight in months. He loves looking at Derek when he’s angry, because isn’t this sight a lovely one to behold, but he hasn’t exactly missed getting his part of the rage.

“I had him on target.”

Stiles counts one plus one. “So, that’s what this is about. You wanted to off him yourself.”

“What? That's absurd.”

“Really? Because it seems so,” Stiles says skeptically.

“Goddamnit, Stilinski! Stop _pretending to be a hero_!” Derek screams, and everything stops.

“What the fuck, Derek,” it’s Lydia who snaps at him.

“What did you just say?” Stiles’ jaw opens in shock.

“You heard me.”

“Wow. _Fine_.” Stiles nods. “If that’s how you really feel, I’m gonna peace out.”

“Stiles.” Derek looks at him in alarm, the regret already shining through.

“Shut the fuck up, Cap,” Stiles spits and gets the fuck out of there. He’s just grown to be really fucking tired of having to be the one to escape these situations with his tail between his legs.

 

The apology comes in the form of a whispered kiss pressed against his neck, while he fucks Derek slow and deep.

“Stiles, I,” Derek pants, and he’s taking it _so well_ , he’s warm and pliant under Stiles’ hands. Stiles is just about to come, and he’s giving Derek his all, he puts his hand on Derek’s dick and pulls in the rhythm of his thrusts.

“I want you so much,” Derek moans, his voice broken from the power of the admission.

Stiles presses kisses at Derek’s cheek. “I want this so much,” Stiles answers. He bites down at Derek’s bottom lip and then he’s coming inside Derek, and Derek’s pulsing around him so tight and lovely, and Stiles gathers his breath for a long, long time.

Finally, he pulls away and lies on his back. Derek snuggles up against him. Stiles can practically hear him thinking. Then: “Do you think they’re the same?”

“What’s the same?” Stiles asks, because apparently playing dumb is the brand new thing for him.

Derek shakes his head. “Nothing.” He lets out a little self-depriving laugh and yawns.

Stiles closes his eyes and forces his heartbeat down. He keeps counting the seconds and wishes he were someone else, someone more tender, more deserving. Something more.

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles pretends to be asleep.

 

Stiles has just awoken from a 3-day trip into his own mind, he’s been trying to come up with a bigger, faster, stronger armor – who knew flamethrowers transformed into kittenthrowers didn’t work that well in reality, after all, huh – and he’s half naked and half-conscious when he stumbles upon the kitchen and almost trips into something. It’s not unusual, he’s clumsy at times, but this time he ain’t tripping on his own. There’s a scapegoat for that. A very small, very fluffy scapegoat.

Stiles has to blink a couple of times just to make sure that this isn’t an hallucination, _again_ , but nope, there truly is an adorable, tiny teeny little Pomeranian puppy at his feet, barking up at him and wagging its tail.

“Uh – people? Is Scott now capable of transforming into an animal, too?” Stiles stops and stares.

There’s laughter coming from the living room. That’s a good sign, Stiles has never before heard voices in his hallucinations. Well, not too often. Stiles isn’t bothered to actually source who’s talking, he absolutely can _not_ take his eyes off the puppy.

So he’s got a soft spot for dogs, alright. Stone him to death, just save the puppy.

Erica picks the puppy up lovingly in her arms. “He was sent for me. I shall call him Squishy. Allison named him.”

“Really, now. How original.”

“Is something wrong with Squishy?” Erica asks with great concern.

“Nothing, nothing at all. Wait – sent?” Stiles is completely, helplessly charmed by the puppy’s little barking as he collects his breakfast from all over the kitchen table. He drinks the juice straight out of a cartoon. He lives with pigs, and he’s a pack animal, after all. Well, whenever it suits him.

Erica starts a very long, very scattered tale of postmarks and mail delivery in this strange planet and Stiles chews with his mouth open, staring at Squishy all the time. He has a new favorite, Stiles decides, and goes back to his work.

And it’s not like Squishy’s a problem, at all, well – until he is. See, Derek and the puppy; they form a connection. And it’d be really great and fine, if it didn’t kill Stiles every single time when he passes the living room only to find Derek napping with Squishy held so carefully against his chest, Stiles swears his heart palpates. Which is simply ridiculous and not acceptable at all.

(On one memorable occasion Stiles joins Squishy and Derek on the couch. Isaac takes a picture and uploads it to every single social media account, because of course he does. It surpasses both Obama and Michelle’s four more years photo and Ellen’s Oscar selfie. Stiles acts annoyed, but secretly it’s the wallpaper on every screen in his lab.)

But summa summarum, now they have a dog. (Stiles doesn’t care about Scott’s objections to that statement. “Squishy’s not a dog, he’s a ball of happiness and rainbows,” Scott says, but whatever, Stiles is not a psycho, he can tell that Squishy’s definitely a dog.) So now Stiles’ got Derek, a mansion, and a dog. He figures it’s as close to white picket fence as he’ll ever get, so he doesn’t mind that Derek’s not ready to go public with their relationship because Stiles is such a coward he still can’t say the three little words out loud. And Stiles knows his fear of those words is the reason Derek’s holding back. Lydia said so.

He’s not bothered. He’s _not_. Stiles doesn’t do bothered, he does Derek. Every night, in various positions. That’s more than many people get in one lifetime, so he should be happy.

 

It’s a beautiful July of 4th, when Mandarin manages to blow up half of the Empire State Building. Fucking figures.

Everything is coming up in dust and chaos, and there’s so many people yelling at Stiles’ ear that he lowers the volume and just tries to desperately find out what to do. There’s people crying and running and apparently dying, and Stiles has seen many a catastrophes in his life, but never before has it been quite like this.

There’s strange as fuck Makluan alien-slash-robots accompanying Mandarin, and they’re keeping the whole Avengers team so busy that it’s practically an impossibility to get to the bad guy himself. Stiles can see Scott doing everything he can, destroying aliens here and there, and Erica’s slashing out at Mandarin, but Stiles knows from experience that this won’t be over soon. Not without casualties, and probably too many of them.

Stiles is fighting off a herd of aliens, when a gravelly voice cuts through his helmet. “Iron Man,” Mandarin rasps. “Turn around. Soon you will say goodbye to all you love.”

“Fuck off, you prick,” Stiles gasps, but his heart fucking stops in his chest. He does turn around, and he’s frantically searching for a familiar flash of blue-white-red, and then he sees the shield flying through the air, and there’s only one thought going through Stiles’ mind: _not him. You can take anything else, but not him._

Mandarin sounds absolutely thrilled. “Watch your mansion blow in two minutes. Well, 1:59…”

It slams Stiles. The mansion, the fucking _Avengers Mansion_. All that he loves. Yeah. The words sound oddly hollow in his ears. But yet, he’s paid _billions_ for that mansion and he’s really not in the mood for this shit right now. “Anybody? Can you hear me?” he shouts into his mic, getting affirmation from most of the team. “We’re taking this motherfucker down right now.”

“What’s your plan?” Allison shouts, the sound of her arrows sent flying carrying well clear over the line.

“You do you, and I’ll do me,” Stiles says. “Just distract him in any which way you can. Scott’ll cover us from the aliens, do not, I repeat, do _not_ give them your attention unless absolutely necessary.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re _flying_ ,” Boyd snorts.

“Yes, and I’m awesome for that, thanks for your input, Boyd,” Stiles doesn’t hold no prisoners today. “Shoot whatever you’ve got at Mandarin and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Derek interrupts, “what’s the plan here?”

“The rings, how many times do I gotta explain,” Stiles is so _tired_ , he just wants to sleep for days. “Just do it, okay? Avengers Mansion is blowing up in, like, 1:30, we really don’t have time for this!”

“I’m covering you all the time, can we maybe move the fuck on,” Allison demands.

“That’s my girl.”

Stiles takes flight, and he can see Mandarin taking a hit after a hit, there’s Derek throwing his shield and Erica with her hammer, Allison’s making use of her explosive arrows and Isaac’s sending some freakishly well aimed net in his direction. Lydia and Boyd are firing the newest Wakandan guns at Mandarin – Stiles is not sure even Boyd knows how they’re supposed to work, but what the hell, let’s not be too picky right now – and Scott’s killing more aliens than can be counted, and to be honest he’s looking like he’s having the time of his life.

Stiles turns all his attention to Mandarin. He’s not going to lose his mansion to some second-rank villain. Come on, what’s he got, some edgy rings and martial skills? Color him frightened.

The thing about Stiles is that he doesn’t really like planning in advance. The most he’s scrapped up is ready, aim, fire, so that’s what he does – only he realizes his mistake halfway through. He’s charging at Mandarin in full speed, repulsors in complete readiness, so damn prepared to take on him from behind (wow, what a sentence), when Mandarin suddenly turns and lifts both of his hands.

Stiles knows what’s coming. He does. The adrenaline rush of that knowledge is the only reason he manages to turn his audio output to reach only Derek.

“Derek,” he says, while staring at his most certain death straight in the face. “Derek, I love you. Just thought you‘d want to know. Bye.”

“Stiles!” he can hear Derek shouting, and by then it’s too late. Stiles and Mandarin make contact mid-air, and Stiles lets his repulsors get fucking wild, and Mandarin works his rings, and there’s a _bang_ , and then everything goes pitch dark.

 

Stiles wakes up to blinding light and a faint beep of a heart monitor. Somebody’s holding his hand. For a blurry moment he thinks it’s Heather, or maybe Scott, because who else would it be, but he opens his eyes to meet Derek’s gaze.

“Hey,” Derek says with a croaked voice. He’s still in his suit. “How’d you feel?”

“What happened?” Stiles tries to get up, but Derek hurries to keep him in place.

“Don’t, please,” Derek mutters, hands sure and steady. He brushes at Stiles’ hair, and Stiles feels something tighten up in his chest.

“Did I get him in time?”

Derek stares at him, looking like he’s fighting against laughter. In the end he just lets out a miserable chuckle. “Yeah, Stiles, you got him in time.”

“Fuck yeah.” Derek smiles. Stiles feels more wildly out of his element than ever. “You’re not gonna remind me about language?” he says in a desperate hope to keep things light. Memories are starting to get hold of him, and most of all, he remembers that last call. The three words. _I fucked up, I fucked up, oh my god_.

“Stiles,” Derek shakes his head, “I couldn’t give a damn about your _language_ right now.”

“You do you.” Stiles swallows. “You‘ve been up here? All night?”

“Well, someone had to.” Derek’s biting at his lip. Stiles has never seen the guy more nervous, not even when Erica wanted them all to go visit the strippers, back in Vegas.

“Oh-kay.”

“Do you - do you need a nurse? I should probably – ”

_Stop_ , Stiles wants to tell him, _just stop and be here for me_. He shakes his head, wincing a little at the pain it causes and Derek is on his side in a flash, hands all over Stiles’ body.

”Careful,” Derek says with huge, concerned eyes, pushing Stiles back to the pillows.

”Yeah, whatever,” Stiles rasps out. They’re disturbingly close, and their last encounter burns constantly through Stiles’ mind - how could he have been that stupid, confessing things he really fucking shouldn’t have, everything’s going to be different now, god, how will he learn to live without Derek ---

”Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Derek’s smile is soft, unreserved, if a little bit searching.

He doesn’t say anything else aloud, but he doesn’t need to; not now. Stiles knows it anyway. He doesn’t believe it, _can’t_ just yet, but somehow, he’ll learn to. For Derek.

“So, hey,” Derek coaxes gently. “Does anywhere hurt? I wasn‘t kidding about the nurse, how‘d you actually feel?”

Stiles looks out the window, where New York is bathing in golden-ish sunrise. Repairmen are working on the ground, the city’s already healing. Stiles looks back at Derek; meets the brightest of eyes, soft lips, messed up hair. Down, to take in their fingers curled together against the bed.

“You know what,” Stiles muses, a warm rush of _happy_ spreading through his whole body, and it feels truly honest for the first time in years. “Pretty heroic.”


End file.
